Channel Nine

The CampfireThe openingFree

My uncle Dave took us camping every August. Me, my brother, and our two cousins, way up in the national forest, at a lake you had to hike two hours to reach. No cell service. No other campers. That was the whole point. Uncle Dave said the woods were the last place left where nobody could find you.

That year my cousin Ben brought walkie-talkies. Cheap ones, from a toy store, with a little dial for channels one through twenty-two. He and my brother each had one, and they spent the whole hike in talking to each other from ten feet apart. "Copy. Over. Roger that. Over."

Uncle Dave set a rule. Channel nine. Always use channel nine. That way if anyone got lost, they'd know where to find each other.

The first night, after the fire died down, we were all in the tent. Ben had his walkie on his chest. Turned up a little. Just static, hissing softly, on channel nine.

And then, in the static, someone breathed.

Just once. A long, slow breath. Right into the microphone.

Ben sat up. "Did you do that?" he whispered to my brother.

My brother held up his walkie. It was off.

The static hissed.

Then, from Ben's walkie, a voice. Low. Quiet. A man's voice. Very calm.

"Four in the tent," it said. "One in the hammock."